Dancing
by HeartsHungBehind
Summary: Shwatsonlock oneshot based off a quote from Game of Shadows. Holmes teaches Watson to dance, yet they quickly give up on this when they realize Watson is a horrible dancer. Rated M for lemony goodness, definite slash! Coauthored with FH96.


**A/N- Thank you to the always lovely FH96 for coauthoring this with me! Even if you do refuse to say penis. Or any synonym of penis. But okay, whatever floats your boat, kiddo.**

**Disclaimer: It is safe to say that I don't own Sherlock ****Holmes.**

"Watson, do stop treading on my foot," Holmes begged through gritted teeth. Their beat had been off since the two of them had begun their gallivant, though that word may have been a bit of a stretch. At least an hour they had been at this, and still Watson could not find a tempo with which to lead his partner. His hands had gradually grown sweatier and the color on the doctor's face had flushed, revealing an embarrassed red as they carried on. Holmes, reluctantly, had decided to take the role of the woman, as to teach his companion a thing or two about leading a mistress about the dance floor. _I really should reconsider my male counterpart_, Holmes thought, another painful stomp to his toes finalized that decision.

"Holmes, I'm sorry. Honestly though, if I knew what I was doing then you wouldn't have to teach me." Watson gripped the man awkwardly, feeling uncomfortable; it was kind of Holmes to let him lead, but dressing in women's clothing was not necessary for the affair. "What will Mrs. Hudson think if she sees this?" he asked, hoping it would inspire Holmes to change his outfit.

"She will likely scream. I thought you would assume this, Watson." A chiding tone came from Holmes, who was careful to avoid further misfortune to his already-bruised feet. "Still, to get me out of this dress and, better yet, back into my own attire... I know that you understand the agreement we shook on. Either you impress me with your fancy footwork, doctor, or you take this heinous thing off of me yourself."

Holmes cracked a most vile grin and took note of Watson's widening eyes, his reaction to the second half of the deal. "Still, carry on, lovely. You've yet to do either, and so we wait." Holmes inched himself a tad closer to his friend as they waltzed to and fro in front of the fire. Not uncomfortably close was the detective, but close enough for concern.

"I'm still feeling a bit troubled by our agreement." John stepped back slightly and continued their spinning path. "I do hope you're joking, Holmes; this is tiring and I'm not sure if I have the willpower to... deflower you."

"I didn't ask you to deflower me, doctor, now did I?" Another evil grin came from Holmes, yanking Watson back to him, their fluid waltz quickly turning to a tenacious tango.

"I- Well I just- You took that out of context! I simply meant-" Watson clicked his tongue impatiently. "You're hopeless."

Holmes gripped his friend's leading hand, perhaps with a bit more strength than necessary, and led him across the floor with clunky stomps. "Me? I'm not the one with two left feet."

"I thought I was leading!" John cried in confusion, trying his best to catch his footing. Following, as it turned out, was actually much easier than leading. Easier, yes, but still discomforting.

"Watson, I'm sorry to say that I have the fleeter of our four feet. The fleet-footed will lead, the clumsy will follow," said the detective, dramatically snapping his neck in the opposite direction and lunging away to another corner of the room; Watson followed, still confused and now slightly frustrated. Holmes suddenly brought him to balance on his knee in a dip, the detective pressed up against Watson in a most compromising manner.

"Holmes! What woman would ever _dip_ me?" Watson pushed his comrade away and straightened himself out. Holmes backed away from his straight-laced friend as if burned. His eyes held more sadness than what he displayed physically, and he said quietly, "Just having a bit of fun, Watson. Nothing wrong in that, is there?" He quirked a genuine smile, his eyes glinting gold in the dim lighting of the room.

John coughed awkwardly and scratched his cheek. "I'm sorry. I'm just a bit on edge about this. Why must dancing be so complicated?"

"You only think it is complicated, Watson," Holmes said as he took a stride over to stand closer to the doctor. "Nothing _has_ to be as difficult as you make it." His eyes flicked up to meet Watson's azure gaze, tinted green by the firelight.

Watson chuckled to himself, as if Holmes' words were foolish. "How wise of you to say so," he replied, taking Sherlock's hand in his and attempting to relieve the tension by leading the man in drag about the room. "And what other things in my life could be so easily uncomplicated?"

"For instance, the choice you must make soon between Mary and myself. It doesn't have to be as complicated as you think." Holmes bit hard on his lip, drawing a bit of blood from the chapped skin. Perhaps he had said too much.

"I see nothing complicated about that." Watson said, once again feeling uncomfortable. "Holmes, we've spoke of this time and time again. Every man, you excluded of course, must one day make the transition from bachelorhood to marriage. You understand, don't you?" They had stopped dancing suddenly, and John gave his flatmate an earnest look. He was not one to often convey emotion- neither man was, and their dynamic was largely based upon this- but those emotions that he did convey were none other than genuine.

"But I am married, John- married to my work! At least, that's what others have told me. And yet," he took Watson's hand in his, reluctant to see the reaction, "I love more than just my career." Another confused look from John simply made Holmes smile, his thumb acting of it's own accord to rub circles into the doctor's hand.

"Holmes, please be forward with me. How are your, shall we say, _quirks_ similar to Mary? They're utterly incomparable. Unless, of course, you are speaking of something other than your work."

"Precisely, Watson." Holmes smiled in a most mischievous manner, chancing a squeeze to Watson's forearm. His friend's eyes widened in a sudden realization.

"Oh. Oh, but- You don't mean... I don't know what to say." Watson not only began stumbling over his words but also over Holmes' feet. The detective cried out from the sudden pain of Watson crushing his toes, and the two toppled to the floor. Holmes landed on top of his friend, sounding off a pained grunt upon impact with his rigid chest.

"This is what happens when I let you lead, old boy. But you did take the initiative this time." The detective rolled off of Watson then, propping himself up on his elbow. "And yes, I do mean _that_, Watson."

"Holmes, you are my dearest friend. I know you like no one else does, and yet I never considered that you might feel for me... as you do."

"Is it really any surprise that I feel as such, Watson?" Holmes whispered huskily, letting his eyes wander away from the doctor's gaze. God, but he was beautiful.

Watson gulped. "How was my dancing?" he asked suddenly. "Was it sufficient?"

A long silence passed between the two of them; they stared one another down and, with fleeting glances, explored the others' bodily curves, all of which were hidden beneath well-fitted linens, belts, and wools. Their silhouettes were outlines only now by the firelight, growing dimmer by the minute. Suddenly, Holmes snapped his eyes back to John's face. "Exceptional for an ex-military doctor whose only experience is dancing in victory on the battlefield."

"And I wouldn't need to undress you if I chose not to do so."

"On the contrary," Holmes said slyly. "Your eyes may be doing the job for you, doctor."

"Sherlock." His tone was one of warning. "Please, stop. I relate to your feelings, I will admit to that, but Mary and I are quite serious. I can not jeopardize that." Even as he said this, it was obvious to both men that Watson was wavering. Holmes turned away from his friend, instead lying on his back with his fingers interlaced in front of his chest. Some minutes later, a curious reply came from the detective.

Holmes whisked only his head in Watson's direction. "You admit it then, that my feelings are shared? And yet you've never voiced this before. Now it seems... untimely, in the sense that you are taken and I am telling you just now of my affinities; ironically, I do so as I prepare you to waltz with someone who is not myself and never will be. I can't have you, Watson. God dammit, why can't I have you?"

"You summed that up nicely," was all he could reply with. Watson rolled to his side and planted a swift kiss to Sherlock's temple, whispering, "And yet, you've always had me."

In that moment, Holmes' eyes lit up with new found determination. "Always, Watson?" He smiled, returning his friend's gesture with a kiss to his cheek.

"I swear it," Watson replied, moving on to the other man's nose for a soft peck. Deciding better than to bring Mary back into the conversation, Holmes brought his lips to the doctor's without another word. John fell into it, his hand cupping Sherlock's cheek. The moment of worry, guilt over his actions, was long past. "And you're sure about this," John asked quietly, his hand still resting on Holmes' jaw. He had to be sure that this was real; Holmes had always seemed so unreachable, and Watson had hidden these feelings away for some time. If they were brought forth once more for a trick or experiment, he was unsure if he could survive it.

"I'm not going to grace that question with an answer, Watson." A hellish smile crossed Holmes' face, and he captured Watson's lips in his own once again. The two of them quickly moved to meld into one another, their bodies clinging together in a way that should have been so utterly uncomfortable, but in truth was the only place they wanted to be. Holmes deepened the kiss they shared, craning his neck to allow Watson better access.

"Let's get you out of that hideous dress," Watson replied, his lips barely leaving his companion's as he spoke.

"But you were so reluctant before, Watson!" Holmes laughed to himself, a hint of a grin gracing his features. Poking fun at his comrade was ever so enjoyable; even so, he quickly did away with the sleeves of the dress, a satisfying rip sounding from both halves.

"I don't start things that I have no intention of finishing, Holmes." He flipped the shorter man over and began to rip at the corset backing.

"I thought you would be more gentle with a lady's clothes, seeing as you have courted women whom I'd assume you've undressed with those nimble fingers of yours before." A hiss came from Sherlock when Watson's cold fingers met his bare back, scalding as it was already.

"Again, these garments are hideous. I much prefer you in a dress shirt and waistcoat." Watson ripped at the corset hard enough that the petticoat attached began tearing at the seams. Holmes groaned under Watson as the doctor pressed against him, grunting with the effort to destroy the dress completely. "And Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson?" Holmes said through gritted teeth, the doctor grinding his hips against the detective's.

"Stop talking." The dress was off now, revealing only a pair of women's knickers. Holmes was nothing if not authentic.

"Ah, I see. You like silen-" Holmes was stopped mid-sentence by Watson's tongue being shoved into his open mouth. Maybe that would shut him up. One of the detective's hands slid down from Watson's neck- it had been resting there for some time now- and moved to unfasten his tweed waistcoat, then the shirt underneath. Watson tugged away the knickers to reveal a patch of dark curls, while Holmes worked at his lover's belt and trousers. Much fumbling later, and Watson was undressed as well. The sensation of their skin touching was electrifying, gentle caresses and careful kisses tracing the outlines of their bodies; it was beautiful all the same.

"We, ah-" Watson stuttered. "I think we need something. Oil or... something to that effect."

After a huff of "bedside table" from Holmes, and Watson had him straddled. Holmes braced himself for the pain. "Gently, Watson. Please be gentle with me."

Watson chuckled to himself. He wet his fingers and pressed against Holmes, one finger at a time to stretch him out. Holmes felt his cock twitch in anticipation as Watson went deeper. Holmes felt Watson's fingers recede suddenly; he quickly replaced them, Holmes sucking in a sharp breath as Watson slowly entered him. Sherlock smacked his head down on the floor to stop a shout only inches from his lips. The doctor, gritting his own teeth, reached a hand up to grasp one of Holmes' own. Their fingers intertwined to ease the slowly fading ache for the detective.

"John," the smaller man groaned as his lover pushed into him, suddenly hitting a spot that caused pleasure to radiant over the pain. Holmes let out something between a cry and a laugh, grinning. He had the strangest way of going about this, beginning to enjoy the feeling of his friend's thrusts as they continued to go deeper. Truth be told, he quite liked it as time passed.

John's pace was quickening with every gasp the two shared. Holmes thrust upward to meet him, wishing the skin contact could last longer than these meetings, mere fractions of seconds. Watson's mouth was on him now, kissing his chest, his neck, gracing his lips with that taste that was already so familiar and comforting. The tightening in his gut was becoming too much to bear. They climaxed together, Watson collapsing on top of his partner when they were through. Holmes rolled over to face him, panting heavily. Their fingers were still intertwined.

"Watson?" Holmes said languidly after many minutes of silence, of absorbing what had transpired between them.

"Yes?" the doctor replied quietly.

"Was that... better than Mary?" Holmes smirked, shifting to better accommodate his lover's weight.

"The two experiences are completely different, Sherlock. Though," he added, kissing the other man's cheek, "I much prefer this."

"The feeling is mutual, Watson," Holmes stated simply, nuzzling into the crook of his companion's neck. They laid together for what felt like an eternity, the night passing without their knowledge. It was dark, the fire almost out, when Watson stood and pulled Holmes to his feet.

"Dance with me."

Holmes chuckled as his arms snaked their way around the doctor. "You can barely dance when my feet are _visible_. Surely I am doomed to walk with a limp until the day I die if we dance in the dark."

Watson escaped his lover's grip to open the curtains, then scurried back into his arms. Moonlight bathed them as they swayed gently with one another, all formal motions forgotten. "Why, John!" Holmes said with mock surprise. "Who taught you to dance like this?"

Watson laughed and kissed him. "You did."


End file.
